


Like Snow, Like Sleet

by marysueheaven



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Arwen has more of a sister relationship w/ Aragorn in this one, Brother-Sister Relationships, M/M, Minor Character Death, OC-centric, but only cannon ones, low-level oc interference, really leaned in to the whole 'Aragorn getting raised by Lord Elrond' thing, they're (adoptive) family now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:47:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26789182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysueheaven/pseuds/marysueheaven
Summary: Another commish, also posted w/ permission. As per instructions, I pretty much followed along with the movie, with some changes.“Speak quickly,” he commands, with an intensity that suggests that giving the wrong answer will carry dire consequences. Fortunately Gimli is there, to answer with his usual consideration and tact.“Give me your name, horse-master, and I shall give you mine.”
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Legolas Greenleaf
Kudos: 9





	1. The White Wizard

**Author's Note:**

> Some inspiration was taken from the books, but it has been *years* since I read them so don't @ me.  
> Also! there's a small amount of elvish in here, which never quite works without footnotes, so here's what I've come up with: I'm just going to put the translation in parentheses, and you're going to ignore how ugly it looks.

The White Wizard

_There is mist below you, only mist; the ground could be within inches, or perhaps not there at all, you cannot know. The rope you cling to feels thin beneath your fingers, frail, barely a thread to protect against the untold depths below you. Still you scramble down, loose stones slipping beneath you. The fear that the rope is not long enough, that you will climb down until it runs out, and still not feel the solid rock below, is a living thing. It crawls over your skin like insects. But you’ve grown used to insects, so you keep climbing._

~0~

Amartië blinks out of the vision to realize she’s running. It takes her a moment to remember why; she’s aware of three runners besides herself, the heat of the sun, the chill of the wind; then the breathlessness, and exhaustion that lingers at the edges of her being, waiting for her to stumble so it can overtake her; then Estel, _Aragorn now,_ whose presence she knows even at her most lost.

A moment longer, and she recognizes Legolas’ presence, as familiar to her as the light of dawn; then the dwarf, _Gimli,_ chasing desperately after them. 

Another beat, and the rest of it comes. _Merry and Pippin in the hands of Uruks_. The fear makes her stumble, and a shock runs through her knee.

Ahead of her, Aragorn stops, pressing an ear against the rock underfoot. Amartië closes the last few feet between them, examining him, weighing his level of exhaustion. His eyes are closed, lips parted just enough to see the glint of teeth.

“Their pace has quickened,” he announces, “They must have caught our scent,” and he is already running as he calls for them to hurry. So Amartië does, matching her footsteps to his, and extends her senses westward, searching for the bright specks that are Merry and Pippin. 

_Your mind is cloudy, hazy the way a fever makes it, and you cannot gather your thoughts to wonder if it’s the injury, or the hunger. Pippin -_

Aragorn has stopped again, kneeling close to the trampled earth, and Amartië almost stumbles over him. She leans over his shoulder to see what has caught his attention. 

In his fingers the leaf-shaped clasp from one of their elven cloaks glints, even muddied by Uruk footprints.

“Not idly do the leaves of Lorien fall,” he says, and there is a rasp to his voice that Amartië recognizes as hope that he cannot tamp down. 

“They may yet be alive,” Legolas says, with the same ache in his voice.

“They are,” she wants to say, but doesn’t. Just because they are alive now does not mean they will be when they catch up. She cannot bring herself to offer words of hope when she is still so uncertain.

“Less than a day ahead of us. Come,” Aragorn orders, rising to his feet, and taking off again.

So Amartië does, spreading her awareness out as far as she dares. Behind her Gimli falls, Legolas calls out to him, they are both running. Ahead of her Aragorn, almost sprinting, pacing himself by sheer force of will. And further still, the taint of Uruks, and the two Hobbits, almost lost in the sea of darkness that surrounds them.

They run in fits and starts, and she can hear the other three talking, perhaps even adding comments of her own, but her mind is far away.

A strange darkness seeps out from Rohan, a shadow that she cannot penetrate. The fates of Men have always been the most difficult for her to read, certainly, but this is different. This is deliberate. 

_You are… cold. A… grief... the halls of your forefathers… clouded… his eyes are always clouded… his oily shadow never far…_

“The Uruks turn northeast,” she hears Legolas shout from ahead. “They are taking the Hobbits to Isengard.”

They run. All Amartië hears is pounding. The pounding of her heart, the pounding of their feet, the _pounding of the drums as the hordes of goblins converge on_ \- But no, that is a memory. That has already happened. She tugs herself loose from her thoughts, and realizes it is night. The moon has risen, bright, and cold. Normally she finds its glow comforting, some distant memory of her mother in the moonlight. Tonight all she sees is an eye; blind, sitting in judgement, peeling back her skin to examine the recesses of her mind. 

A sensation crashes against her, a rage, almost. Not in words or images the way creatures think; not truly an emotion, either, but she has no other way to describe it. Briefly she is aware of axes, of fire, of fury. Amartië stumbles, neary falls, and pulls back into herself with a snap. She feels, rather than sees the concerned look Legolas shoots her.

“They’re cutting down the trees,” she replies, before he asks, “They are using them as firewood.”

Anger thrums beneath Legolas’s skin, and she retreats further; fatigue weighs upon her heavily enough without the burden of another’s rage helping it along.

He glances at her, apology written on his face; Amartië shakes her head. It’s hardly his fault that she senses him so clearly. 

Farther still, and she sees Legolas hear the cries of the forest for the first time. His feet carry him faster, and she can see his desire to fly ahead, to reach the Hobbits, and the forest, and the Uruks. It is only Aragorn who slows him down; while strong, and fast, and hardy, he is still only a Man, and these days of running have been wearing on him. 

_You have been running for so long you can hardly remember what it is to stop. The feeling of breathing is only a distant memory, replaced by the ragged wheezing of damaged bellows. And ahead of you, as always, the elves run tirelessly; showy bastards the lot of them._

Amartië breathes a laugh forgetting, for a moment, her dark mood. She is glad of Gimli’s presence, she thinks, especially now that the tension between him and Legolas has dissipated. He has a strength to him that is different from the others. A familiarity with death that allows him to bear its weight without too great a struggle. 

The sun rises, and she sees Legolas pause, brow furrowed in concern at its light. A bleeding sun.

“A red sun rises,” he says. “Blood has been spilt this night.”

Aragorn has stopped again, crouching close to the ground, his fingers pressed lightly to the grass. Horses, Amartië realizes. A large company of them. She flings herself toward the nearest cluster of boulders and crouches down. Beside her Legolas yanks Gimli off his feet entirely in an effort to pull him from view. He’s panting, tired enough that all he manages are a few grumbled curses about impudent elves. And then the riders are upon them.

It is a large cavalry, with bright steel, and swift horses. Amartië wonders briefly how they hadn’t noticed the company’s approach. Four days of hard travel might be the cause, Amartië suspects. She turns her attention to the cavalry as they flood past, and feels what she will not allow to be the beginnings of hope when she recognizes their banners.

They carry the crest of Rohan, and Aragorn steps fearlessly out into the light. There is never a chance to counsel caution, with him. You just have to be fast enough to grab him in time, and Amartië is distracted. Legolas follows immediately, moving to stand at Aragorn’s right, although with more of the wariness that the situation merits. 

“Riders of Rohan!” Aragorn calls out to them, “What news from the Mark?”

The company turns, moving toward them in a wave, and for a moment Amartië fears they will not stop. In the space of heartbeats they are surrounded, and Amartië notices the protective arm Legolas places unconsciously in front of Gimli. Normally this would warrant a smile, but the riders circle closer, and at speed, before aiming their spears in the quartets direction, which she finds most distracting.

Amartië begins to suspect the news from the Mark is poor. This suspicion only grows when the leader of their company rides in closer through the press of horses; she can feel the hostility pouring off him in waves.

“What business do two Elves, a Man, and a Dwarf have in the Riddermark?” he demands, by way of greeting; not a good sign. His next words are equally worrying, although more for the tone than anything else.

“Speak quickly,” he commands, with an intensity that suggests that giving the wrong answer will carry dire consequences. Fortunately Gimli is there, to answer with his usual consideration and tact.

“Give me your name, horse-master, and I shall give you mine.”

Aragorn glances at him from the corner of his eye, irritation twisting the corners of his mouth. Amartië bites down on her laughter, if only because of the way the aforementioned horse-master dismounts, movements jerky with rage. He steps uncomfortably close, and Amartië has to fight to keep her hands held loosely at her sides, and away from her sword. Aragorn drops a heavy hand onto Gimli’s shoulder, whether to hold him in place, or in preparation to push him out of danger, it is unclear.

“I would cut off your head, Dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground.”

“You would die before your stroke fell,” Legolas swears, arrow already nocked, and pointed at the rider’s face.

He’s always been like this, Amartië thinks, or at least as long as she has known him. At any moment, ready to attack. Always bright, laughing, joking, none of the darkness that so many warriors carry with them, and yet. Legolas is a wood-elf, with the Greenwood in his blood, and the propensity for bloodlust of his kin. 

Aragorn steps between them, even more irritated than before, pushing Legolas’s arm down. And Legolas lets him, because he’s Aragorn, and for no other reason; even still, he does not break the rider’s gaze. 

“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. This is Gimli, son of Gloin, and Legolas and Amartië of the Woodland Realm. We are friends of Rohan, and of Theoden, your king.”

Legolas, helpfully, still has his eyes fixed on the rider’s, every muscle tense, as if he is desperate to make Aragorn a liar. 

At the reference to Theoden, the rider drops his gaze, some hidden grief clouding over his eyes.

“Theoden no longer recognizes friend from foe,” he says, removing his helmet. “Not even his own kin.”

Beside her, Amartië feels some of the tension leave Legolas, replaced by a wary sympathy, as finally the spears around them are lifted, pointing at the sky instead of their throats.

“Saruman has poisoned the mind of the king, and claimed lordship over these lands. My company are those loyal to Rohan. And for that, we are banished.”

_“And who should a warrior be loyal to,” your mother asks softly, “The people, or the King?”_

_“Is there a difference?” you wonder aloud._

_“Sometimes,” your mother says, and you frown. Always when your father speaks of it, they are one and the same, but now your mother tells you differently. This troubles you far more than what your mother just told you, but you try to focus on the question at hand._

_“A warrior is supposed to protect the weak,” you say, because this you are certain of. “A king is not weak. It must be the people a warrior is loyal to.” And your mother smiles._

“We track a party of Uruk-hai westward across the plain,” Aragorn is saying, “They have taken two of our friends captive.”

A horrible dread wells up inside the rider, and Amartië closes her eyes against the words she knows are coming.

“The Uruks are destroyed. We slaughtered them during the night.”

“But there were two Hobbits,” Gimli interrupts urgently. “Did you see two Hobbits with them?”

“They would be small, only children to your eyes,” Aragorn says, with the deliberate calm he always speaks with at his most afraid.

The rider looks away, and Amartië finds her hand clenched on the hilt of her sword, as if it can protect her from what he will say next.

“We left none alive.”

To his credit, he does manage to look into Aragorn’s eyes when he delivers the news that he accidently killed two of their friends. There is a strength in that, and perhaps on day Amartië will be able to respect it. Not today. Today she pushes through the horses, and takes off at a dead sprint, as if reaching the scene of their death that much faster will make a difference.

The soul of the battle still haunts the landscape, and Amartië dares not open her mind to search for the Hobbits. There is enough trouble without her collapsing from the strain like some inexperienced elfling. 

Instead she searches the bodies, rummaging through the smoldering pyre, barely able to feel the burn of metal recently set in a fire. 

Gimli appears beside her, joins her in pawing through the heap, and she’s numbly startled that he managed to get so close without her noticing. He lifts something from the pile, and she looks over to see what he holds.

“It’s one of their wee little belts.”

Legolas murmurs a prayer. It is not one of hope. What hits the hardest Amartië, harder even than the loss of the Hobbits, which she still cannot believe has happened, is Aragorn. The cry of pain, of rage, of sorrow, that escapes him; it makes something in her chest twist. He drops to his knees on the ground, and she reaches out instinctively, as if to catch him. 

“We failed them,” Gimli says, as if hoping to be proven wrong. As if he’s still waiting for one of the Hobbits to pop out from behind the pyre with a grin, laughing with their silly high voices.

Amartië has no idea if they have any family, she realizes, no idea how to find them. No way to bring the news, no way of knowing who it should be brought to. She sucks in a rattling breath, feeling as if her lungs are caving in. They hadn’t told anyone they were leaving; Pippin had mentioned it cheerfully soon after leaving Imladris. At the time Amartië hadn’t really focused on it; she had always wandered. To leave without word, underprepared, or on a whim, was a way of life. Certainly it annoyed some people in her life, but most, by now, had grown used to it.

But now, looking at the scorched remains of the belt Gimli holds, Amartië realizes how much it matters.

“A Hobbit lay here,” Aragorn says, brushing at the torn grass near him. He leans a little farther. “And the other.”

That same pained hope is in his voice, now, the hope that he tries desperately not to feel when there is so little chance it leads anywhere.

“They crawled.” He moves further, “Their hands were bound.” He rises to his feet, following the tracks that even Amartië has trouble picking out. “Their bonds were cut,” he says, pulling a length of rope from the grass. 

“They ran over here. They were followed.” He’s jogging now, matching his steps to the tracks the Hobbits left behind. “The tracks lead away from the battle!”

He’s passed through hope, and fully into belief, now. In Aragorn’s mind it is a matter of _finding_ the Hobbits, rather than learning whether they are still alive. Despite herself Amartië begins to believe it too. 

They draw up at the edge of Fangorn Forest and stop.

“...Into Fangorn Forest,” Aragorn finishes.

“Fangorn?” Gimli breathes, “What madness drove them in there?”

Legolas and Aragorn share a look, and stride into the forest without another word. Amartië sighs, and claps Gimli on the shoulder, stepping past the tree line just behind them. 

“Whatever madness it was,” she says, “It seems to be contagious.” 

Barely has she gone three steps before the Forest hits her; the anger she felt from a distance before is overwhelming up close. 

_You have caught two little Orcs and you are furious. How dare they come into your woods. How dare they hurt your trees. Fire, and axes, gnawing, biting, breaking, hacking, burning. So many lost, taken,_ stolen _from you, from life. You have never hated the way you do now-_

A warm hand closes on Amartië’s wrist, and she snaps back to herself. She sways on her feet, almost turns to stumble out of the forest.

“Tancata,” Aragorn says, in that strange way of his, using the Westeron meaning of a Quenya word. (Steady.)

“Tye're using i quetta raica,” she replies with a wan smile. (You're using that word wrong.)

“Come on,” he says, “Just a little further.”

So Amartië does, even though they both know he cannot actually tell how much further they will have to go.

Satisfied that Amartië is alright, Aragorn runs ahead again, reading the tracks none of the rest of them see, Legolas just behind, running without a sound. Amartië and Gimli follow at a slower pace; Gimli because he is ill-suited for the woods, Amartië because she has to concentrate on walking.

“These are strange tracks.” Aragorn kneels to examine the ground, and when Amartië moves closer to see what he’s looking at she feels the faint tickle of memory. Something she knew, once. Something important she was told.

“The air is so close in here,” Gimli whispers loudly, stroking his beard. A nervous habit of his, and one that he doesn’t seem to be aware of.

“This forest is old. Very old. Full of memory… and anger,” Legolas replies, because he absolutely refuses to give a clear precise answer under any circumstances.

Around them, the trees moan in agreement. Gimli again makes use of his considerable skill in bringing active hostility into a sensitive situation by brandishing his axe. The trees groan louder.

“The trees are speaking to each other,” Legolas announces, looking concerned, but helpfully choosing not to translate.

“Gimli!” Aragorn hisses, “Lower your axe.”

“Oh,” Gimli says, as if such a thing had never occurred to him. A problem where an axe is not a solution is not something dwarves are ever prepared for. 

“They have feelings, my friend. The elves began it: waking up the trees, teaching them to speak,” Legolas says.

“Talking trees,” Gimli says, not looking especially appreciative. “What do trees have to talk about, hm? Except the consistency of squirrel droppings.”

Amartië opens her mouth to tell him, and reconsiders. It seems unlikely that Gimli is truly interested in a half-days explanation of it all. And even if he was, now is a poor time to give it in.

“Aragorn, na-ed ennas,” Legolas says, slipping into Sindarin. A habit Amartië shares, to fall into her first language when startled. (Something is out there.)

“Mana cen-llë?” Aragorn whispers. (What do you see?)

“The White Wizard approaches,” Legolas replies, with a deliberateness that seems almost out of place. A hunter’s smile dangles on his lips, pupils widening in preparation for a strike. Wood elves, honestly. Aragorn and Gimli react more appropriately, growing serious, wary, in an instant. 

“Do not let him speak,” Aragorn whispers. “He will put a spell on us.”

Aragorn’s sword sliding out of its sheath, Gimli’s grip tightening on his axe, the feathers on Legolas’s arrow, Amartië’s own hand on her blade; however clearly she would’ve heard these sounds normally, in this dark wood they become unimaginably loud. 

“We must be quick,” Aragorn says, and spins toward the blinding light that appears. 

Legolas releases his arrow, Gimli throws his ax, Aragorn draws his sword, Amartië following suit. She is aware of Legolas’s arrow shattering, of Gimli’s axe doing the same; Most distractingly, however, her sword is now burning her hands, too hot to hold on to. Without a thought she flings it to the ground, and beside her she sees Aragorn do the same. 

Normally this is where she would fling herself forward, draw a second sword, because it doesn’t hurt to try, attack without giving her enemy a moment to regroup.

Something freezes her where she is. Aragorn throws up a hand to protect his eyes as the light grows even brighter.

“You are tracking the footsteps of two young Hobbits,” the White Wizard says. 

“Where are they?” Aragorn demands.

“They passed this way the day before yesterday. They met someone they did not expect. Does that comfort you?” the White Wizard asks, and he sounds almost as if he genuinely wants to know; and Amartië knows he is not Saruman

Amartië is not comforted. There are many people the Hobbits would not expect to meet, and very few of them would be friendly. Not being Saruman, while always a good start, does not automatically make someone trustworthy. 

“Who are you?” Aragorn breathes. And then, when the White Wizard does not answer within three seconds, “Show yourself!”

The White Wizard doesn’t smite him even a little, which Amartië marks down as another point in his favor. And then the light fades.

“Mithrandir,” she breathes. 

“It cannot be,” Aragorn whispers, that rasp of poorly suppressed hope returning to his voice. 

“Forgive me,” Legolas says, kneeling, “I mistook you for Saruman.”

“I am Saruman. Or rather, Saruman as he should have been,” Mithrandir says, and Amartië smiles. He has not changed, then, if he still believes that to be a sufficient answer.

“You fell,” Aragorn insists, still fighting back hope. Typical. Trying not to hope for the unlikely is his natural state, even once his hopes have been answered. 

“Through fire,” Mithrandir agrees, “and water. From the lowest dungeon, to the highest peak, I fought with the Balrog of Morgoth. Until at last I threw down my enemy, and smote his ruin upon the mountainside.”

_It is snowing, winding roaring around you, flinging the snowflakes through the air._

“Darkness took me, and I strayed out of thought and time. Stars wheeled overhead, and every day was as long as a life age of the Earth. But it was not the end. I felt life in me again. I have been sent back, until my task is done.”

“Gandalf,” Aragorn breathes, at last abandoning his fight, and accepting what he sees. He steps closer. 

“Gandalf? Yes,” Mithrander says thoughtfully, “That was what they used to call me,” he informs Aragorn, as if imparting a secret.

Amartië smiles. If he remembers this name, then the rest will soon follow. And the way he said it, as if he might not be allowed, and was going to anyway, that mischievous glint in his eye, is comfortingly familiar. 

“Gandalf the Grey. That was my name.”

“Gandalf,” Gimli says, and Amartië suspects that were he alone he might cry. Fortunately Legolas is around, so there is no chance of excessive vulnerability. 

“I am Gandalf the White.”

When Amartië glances at Legolas, his eyes are fixed on Mithrandir, and a soft smile plays on his lips. So different from the hunter’s grin he wore earlier.

“And I come back to you now… at the turn of the tide.”

The walk out of Fangorn is easier than the one in, which Amartië attributes largely to Mithrandir’s presence. 

“One stage of your journey is over. Another begins. We must travel to Edoras with all speed.”

“Edoras? That is no short distance,” Gimli says, sounding far from delighted at the prospect of more urgent travel.

“We hear of trouble in Rohan,” Aragorn tells Mithrandir quietly. “It goes ill with the king.”

“Yes, and it will not be easily cured,” Mithrandir says, apparently having come back to life in some miserable snowy peak, traveled immediately to a haunted wood, and waited there for the four of them with every intention of taking on whatever evil lies in Rohan as soon as they arrived.

Amartië does not find herself looking forward to the trip after that winning recommendation.

“Then we have run all this way for nothing?” Gimli asks, still stuck on the moving-at-speed aspect of their coming journey. “Are we to leave those poor Hobbits here horrid, dark, dank, tree-infested--” 

The trees around them begin making loud sounds of displeasure, and Gimli, using for the first time the skill of foresight pauses to try again.

“-I mean, charming…” he scrambles for other words, and apparently comes up blank, “Quite charming… forest.”

“It was more than mere chance that brought Merry and Pippin to Fangorn. A great power has been sleeping here for many long years. The coming of Merry and Pippin will be life the falling of small stones that starts an avalanche in the mountains,” Mithrandir says.

Amartië thinks that Merry and Pippin might better be equated to setting off stolen fireworks in the mountains, but chooses not to say anything.

“In one thing you have not changed, dear friend,” Aragorn says.

Mithrandir leans closer.

“You still speak in riddles,” Aragorn murmurs affectionately, and Mithrandir smiles. 

“A thing is about to happen that has not happened since the Elder Days. The Ents are going to wake up… and find that they are strong.”

“Strong?” Gimli cries with a despairing cheer, “Oh, that’s good.”

“So, stop your fretting, Master Dwarf. Merry and Pippin are quite safe. In fact, they are far safer than you are about to be.”

“This new Gandalf’s more grumpy than the old one,” Gimli grumbles, and Amartië cannot help but laugh.


	2. To Be Mortal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> please ignore the lack of indents, I'm really struggling with this website

Amartië rides behind Aragorn, taking hold of his cloak as they near Edoras. Sickness rolls out from the city like oil slick on ocean waves. She does not want to go any closer.

_The creature before you cannot be killed, they say. It is called undying. Pain lances through your arm, bones grinding beneath the skin, as you tear off your helmet, and even now your King lies dying. But you are a swordmaiden of Rohan, and you fear no death._

_“I am no man,” you say, and lunge._

Amartië breathes out in a gust, and Aragorn shifts. He doesn’t look back, precisely, but the idea is there, and Amartië touches his arm.

“Ala-Ninya,” she assures him. (I am alright.)

“What did you see?”

“A warrior,” Amartië says. “One who may do what is the impossible.”

She feels, rather than hears, his chuckle.

“You complain when others give half-answers and riddles,” he says, “And take great pleasure in doing the same.”

“I cannot be expected to give what I never receive,” Amartië laughs. “Perhaps if people spoke more plainly to me, I would speak more plainly to them.”

“Tarsa-tálala,” he says affectionately. (Trouble-maker.)

“You’re using those words wrong,” Amartië replies, because she cannot argue his assessment. 

Legolas glances over with a smile, and Amartië grins back. Movement catches her attention, and her gaze snaps skyward and seizes on a dark shape floating through the air. It’s a banner, she realizes, a banner of Rohan. The white horse on a background of forest green, the gold stitching. They draw nearer, and Amartië cannot help but leap from the horse to catch it before it touches the ground. 

Aragorn slows long enough for her to pull herself back onto the horse behind him, silently disapproving.

“It would be a shame to let a banner of Rohan fall to the ground,” she says.

“It would be a shame to break your ankles just moments before we enter Edoras,” he replies mildly.

The town is quiet, the people wary; Edoras is a city waiting for its fall. All around them, suspicious eyes watch.

“You’ll find more cheer in a graveyard,” Gimli says, and while Amartië agrees, she does wish he would at least make an attempt not to speak _every_ thought he has, the moment it enters his head.

The castle, if it can truly be called such, is so different from the ones she knows. Las Galen is made up of pale stone, and living wood, full of light in all but the deepest places. A golden glow shines throughout it, even after the sun sets.

Imladris is equally beautiful, in her mind, although a different sort. Imladris is all water, and wind, and starlight. Everywhere the sound of waterfalls echoes, everywhere the scent of river in the air. It is most beautiful at night, she thinks, when the stone glows like moonlight, and the trees are gilded silver. 

Lothlórien isn’t comparable to any other place on middle earth, being so open, and so high up. Gimli had complained that there was no _inside_ to go _in_ to, when they had gone.

In contrast, this castle is a fort of blocks, the way a child might create. Squat, and square, of rough grey stone. A building made to withstand storms, and weather attack. She can hear Gimli grumbling about the number of stairs leading to the entrance.

It’s a bit unfair, Amartië thinks, considering the truly excessive number of staircases in Moria. Still, she says nothing. The pain of the mines has not left her yet, and Gimli’s grief far outweighs her own. 

They are stopped at the doors by a man who looks as though he’d vastly prefer it had been anyone else’s job to greet them.

_You are the captain of the guard and your name means ‘home’. There is a certain irony there, you are sure. Something to do with the coldness of your king’s halls. Something to do with the way your home has been lost, even as it still stands._

“I cannot allow you before Theoden King so armed, Gandalf Greyhame,” he says, _Háma_ says, “By order of,” and here the words come with difficulty, “Grima Wormtongue.”

“Finië,” Amartië murmurs, softly enough that only Legolas hears. (Subtle.)

“Cin're i peth roeg,” he replies, just as softly, the smile he dares not show thrumming in his voice. (You're using that word wrong.)

Mithrandir nods to the four of them, so they begin disarming, preparing to spring the obvious trap. Aragorn passes over his weapons with a sullen defiance that Amartië remembers from his childhood. She passes over her swords. And then two long hunting knives. And then her bow, and quiver, and a third knife, this one hidden in her boot. The guard collecting her weapons is beginning to look uncomfortable. 

“Peace, Folca,” she says, using his name to unsettle him, and passing him a fourth and fifth knife, one hidden in each sleeve, “These are the last of them.”

Háma does an admirable job not noticing either the number of weapons Amartië carries, _or_ her use of Folca’s name. Legolas struggles not to laugh.

“Your staff,” Háma says to Mithrandir, looking tired.

“Hmm? Oh. You would not part an old man from his walking stick,” Mithrandir says, as if anyone would believe such a thing. 

Háma does not, and gives them a look that says as much quite clearly, but allows them through anyway.

Mithrandir winks at Aragorn, who smiles slightly in return. Legolas takes Mithrandir’s arm, as if to support him; Amartië feels he could fairly be accused of having too much fun with this ruse. At least Gimli is not taking the situation so lightly, looking around himself suspiciously, frowning as the door is barred behind them. 

The halls _are_ cold. The fire burns low in its brazier, and the windows are covered by ragged curtains, and dust. More than that is the air. It smells of defeat, and despair, and something unnameable, something Amartië dares not dwell upon.

And there, at the end of the hall, sitting in the dying body of an old man, the evil that Amartië has felt poisoning the air in Rohan. 

“My lord,” says the man that can only be Grima Wormtongue, “Gandalf the Grey is coming.”

Sellswords from the [north] keep pace alongside them as they walk closer, and Amartië readys herself to fight. Legolas is focused now, drawn tight as the string of his bow, eyes skipping throughout the room. All around, eyes stare back. The hostile ones of the sellswords, the wary ones of the guards, the resigned ones of the court.

“He’s a herald of woe,” Grima hisses into the king’s ear.

“The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late, Theoden King,” Mithrandir says, in an echoing voice.

Amartië opens up her mind, just a little, hoping to catch a glimpse of Theoden; at first all she senses is Saruman, wrapped around Theoden’s fëa like spider silk.

“He’s not welcome,” Grima continues, still hissing into the King’s ear. Amartië stifles a shudder. She would put an arrow through his throat before allowing him so close to her face.

Aragorn picks his way carefully across the floor, as if he walks through a marsh, as if the ground might disappear from underfoot; a ranger to his core. 

“Why… should I welcome... you… Gandalf Stormcrow?” the puppet asks, sounding as if each word is more difficult than the last. He cannot seem to get his breath. A side effect of having a rogue Maia sitting in your lungs.

“A just question, my liege.” 

Finally Amartië finds what she is looking for; the last flickering speck of Theoden, weak but not yet destroyed. She feels a rush of relief, and draws back again, sealing her mind off. One can never be too careful when Saruman is about.

“Late is the hour in which this conjurur chooses to appear,” Grima says, rising to his feet, apparently tired of dragging responses from the puppet. “Lathspell, I name him. Ill news is an ill guest.”

It all seems a bit performative to Amartië. Surely no one in this place still believes Theoden’s words are his own; surely it is clear by now that Grima is just another of Saruman’s lackeys. Indeed, there is no great reaction to his words. If someone of consequence had dared speak in such a manner… Amartië shakes her head. It is painful to watch.

“Be silent. Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth,” Mithrandir commands him, apparently unwilling to play along. “I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm.” He raises his staff and Grima steps back hurriedly, eyes growing wide.

“His staff. I told you to take the wizard’s staff,” he whines. Amartië feels a thrill of disgust. No true ruler would whine so pathetically. At his words the sellswords rush forward, as if intending to fight Mithrandir head on. 

Amartië moves. A punch to the throat; a kick to the chest; a knee to the face, his ears used as handles to drag his face down. 

For a moment it seems as though one of the guards will start forward, but Háma grabs his arm to stop him. Clearly the people of Edoras have grown tired of playing along with this ridiculous charade.

For a moment Amartië wonders if she should kill the men attacking her. One of them makes a grab for her hair, so she punches his throat. 

“Son of Thengal,” Mithrandir says, ignoring the fight that whirls around him, “Too long have you sat in the shadows.” 

Better to leave them alive for now, she decides, stepping under a clumsy strike, allowing the man’s own momentum to do the rest. The King might want to choose their fates himself. 

It is with disappointing ease that the rest of the sellswords are dispatched.

Aragorn flings someone bodily into a column. Legolas clubs a sellsword behind him with a closed fist, never looking back. Gimli knocks Grima to the floor, placing a heavy foot on his chest.

“I would stay still if I were you,” he growls.

All around them, the people of Theoden’s hall draw closer, waiting to see what Gandalf the Grey will do to save them.

“Hearken to me,” Mithrandir says, eyes fixed on Theoden, “I release you from this spell.”

On Theoden’s throne, Saruman starts to laugh, even now blind to the danger he finds himself in. Aragorn shifts warily, looking for another enemy to fight; whatever instincts Eru gave to Man, they are telling him the danger has not passed.

“You have no power here, Gandalf the Grey,” says Theoden who is Saruman.

Mithrandir pauses a moment, before flinging his cloak from his shoulders, a soft glow wreathing his form. A flair for the dramatics, this one. Even more so, Amartië suspects, than his last incarnation.

Theoden who is Saruman is slammed back in his throne looking, for the first time, unsure. 

“I will draw you, Saruman, as poison is drawn from a wound.” He slams the groaning puppet against Theoden’s throne again with a jab from his staff. 

A woman comes running into the throne room -

_You are a sword maiden of Rohan and you fear no death._

-and makes as if to run to Theoden’s side. Aragorn catches her by the arm, holding her back.

“Wait,” he says.

“If I go, Theoden dies,” Saruman growls, leaning forward.

“You did not kill me, you will not kill him,” Mithrandir says without lowering his gleaming staff.

“Rohan is mine,” Saruman insists, and groans as Mithrandir pushes him back into Theoden’s throne.

“Be gone,” Mithrandir commands, unfazed. 

Saruman flings Theoden forward with an animalistic growl, rage overpowering reason, and Mithrandir thrusts his staff toward him.

_You are flung across-_

Legolas takes her hand in his, cool, and firm, pulling Amartië back into herself before it goes any further.

“ú- hi er,” he warns. (Not this one.)

“Manen al-ula saira,” Amartië returns with a grin. (How unexpectedly wise.)

“Dain, cin.” (Quiet, you.)

Theoden slumps forward as if he will fall to the ground, and the woman pulls away from Aragorn, leaping forward to catch him. In moments the unnatural age falls off him, his eyes growing clear, his hair returning to red. 

“I know your face,” he breathes, “Eowyn.”

Tears of relief fill her eyes, blue as a summer sky, and she cradles Theoden’s face in her hands. Theoden looks out across his hall at the people gathered and recognizes Mithrandir for the first time since he entered.

“Gandalf?” Theoden says, as if unsure what he sees is true. As if he is just waking from a dream, still shaking off the haziness of sleep.

“Breathe the free air again, my friend,” Mithrandir says warmly.

He rises from his throne, stiff, and wincing; it has been a long time since his body was his own. It will be some time before it feels familiar again.

“Dark have been my dreams of late,” Theoden says, peering at his hands as if not quite certain who they belong to.

“Your fingers would remember their old strength better if they grasped your sword,” says Mithrandir, and Háma steps forward with it already in his hands; as if he had been carrying it all along, just waiting for his king to return. Perhaps he had.

When Theoden reaches out to take it his hands are shaking; He looks at it as if he has never seen it before, and Háma seems to have stopped breathing. But then Theoden draws the sword, holding it up in front of himself. His hands have stopped shaking.

At this Grima jerks back, ready to run for the door, but Gimli’s grip on his robes is strong, and he keeps him in place without looking down. And then the king’s gaze lands upon him.

_You are the captain of the guard and your name means home. It is fitting, you think, because home is why you have stayed. You have been waiting all this time for your King to return home, and finally, finally he has. Finally the order will come, the order you have been waiting to follow, hoping to hear for all this time._

The doors crash open and Amartië strides down the hall quickly, weaving in between members of the court to better see what will happen next. She breaks through the crowd just in time to see Grima be flung down the stairs, and makes a half-hearted attempt not to be pleased by his cries of pain.

“I’ve only… ever… served you, my lord,” he gasps, scrambling backward, away from the king and his rage.

“Your leechcraft would have had me crawling on all fours like a beast!” Theoden spits, advancing down the stairs. Mithrandir follows closely behind, white robes waving in the breeze. 

“Send me not from your sight,” Grima begs, and he sounds as if he may cry. Amartië finds herself wondering what sort of welcome he will receive when he returns to Saruman.

“A most unhappy one, I would suspect,” Legolas murmurs beside her, having guessed her thoughts. His blue eyes open wide as Theoden swings his sword above his head.

Legolas’s gaze is not on Theoden, nor on his sword; it has landed on Aragorn, and the way he bolts forward, daring to grab the arm of the king.

“No my lord! No, my lord. Let him go,” Aragorn says wrestling him back. “Enough blood has been spilt on his account.”

“Only him,” Legolas sighs, that curious mixture of exasperation and affection that only Aragorn seems to inspire in him.

At the base of the stairs below them Aragorn is wiping his hand on his clothes looking disgusted. Grima, to show his appreciation to Aragorn for having saved his life, had spit on his outstretched hand. In moments he has flung himself to his feet and taken off at a run.

“Get out of my way!” he shouts, shoving his way through the gathering crowd, black robes flapping around him.

“He looks like a great bat,” Gimli says, “Caught up in a thicket.”

“Although much louder,” Legolas says, “And without the saving grace of consuming unwanted pests.”

“Hail Theoden King,” Háma shouts, and the gathered crowd slowly kneels, gazing in wonder at the king they thought lost. 

Amartië watches Aragorn kneel before him, lowering his head in deference, and thinks that the scene is familiar. She had seen him kneel before Theoden’s father the same way, years ago. It will not be much longer now, before he must bear the weight of a crown, so she says nothing, although Theoden looks somewhat startled. And then, just as Amartië lets her guard, the peace is shattered.

“Where is Theodred? Where is my son?”

Amartië closes her eyes.

The burial is agonizing. Amartië seals her mind off tightly, hiding from the grief, the sorrow, the _despair_ , that surrounds her. Even so, she can see it. Death is not unknown to elves, obviously. The world is not without dangers. Amartië had spent much of her early life in Eryn Galen; she had seen death. 

But Men die so often, so quickly, so _easily_ , in a way that is all but unheard of among eldalië . They die of sickness, of wounds that an eldalië _child_ could shake off, of simply growing _old_. 

And yet it always seems to come as a surprise to them. They live so quickly, Amartië thinks, that they have no time to prepare for death. 

Eowyn chants a rohirric lament at the entrance of the tomb, and once more, tears glimmer in her pale eyes. She’s too young to cry so often, Amartië feels. Too young to have such cause to grieve. Is this what it is to be mortal? To be in a constant stage of mourning? To watch those you love die like mayflies around you? To know that someday you too will die, leaving your loved ones to suffer?

Unbidden, Amartië’s eyes are drawn to Aragorn, and she wonders if he is thinking the same things as her. Of Arwen, of Elladan and Elohir, of Legolas, of _her_ ; of the family he will leave behind when he dies. At the thought her breath leaves her. Usually she does such a good job of ignoring that little truth, such a good job of forgetting. Her mortal brother. His mortal death. The loss that she is cursed with. 

“Amartië?” Legolas murmurs, and she realizes she’s shaking. 

“Ni care-vamme ve quatnoirë,” she replies with a tight smile. (I don't like funerals.)

A muscle in his jaw clenches for a moment, because he knows, of course he does, what she means, instantly; and if a tear glimmers in his eyes, no one says anything. It is, after all, a burial. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor clarifications
> 
> Finië /technically/ means 'cunning' not 'subtle' bc elves haven't invented subtlety apparently.
> 
> Manen al-ula saira is an /extremely/ rough translation, but I did my best.
> 
> Eryn Galen means Greenwood, and its what the elves called Mirkwood before it started being called Mirkwood. (Clunky sentence is clunky). I like the thought of them stubbornly refusing to call it Mirkwood, altho idk how cannon that is.
> 
> Ni care-vamme ve quatnoirë is also a bit of a rough translation. there is no word for funeral, or burial, or anything of the sort, so I’ve combined the word ‘tomb’ with the prefix meaning ‘to fill’. whatever.


End file.
